its message was only a call for help--it might be a warning
to Lynch. Or it might be a signal to still other Apaches who were
watching his coming from the heights, and as Wunpost looked again his
hand sought out the Indian's scalp-lock and he regarded it almost
regretfully.

Why had he envenomed that ruthless savage by lifting his scalp-lock, the
token of his warrior's pride; when by treating him generously he might
have won his good will and thus have one less enemy in the hills?
Perhaps Wilhelmina had been right--it was to make good on a boast which
might much better have never been uttered. He had bet her his mine and
everything he had, a thing quite unnecessary to do; and then to make
good he had deprived this Indian of his hair, which alone might put him
back on his trail. He might get another horse and take up once more that
relentless and murderous pursuit; and this time, like Lynch, he would be
out for blood and not for the money there was in it.

Wunpost sighed and cinched his packs and hit out across the flats for
the mouth of Emigrant Wash. But the thought that other Apaches might be
in Lynch's employ quite poisoned Wunpost's flowing cup of happiness, and
as he drew near the gap which led off to Emigrant Springs he stopped and
looked up at the mountains. They were high, he knew, and his mules were
tired, but something told him not to go through that gap. It was a
narrow passageway through the hills, not forty feet wide, and all along
its sides there were caves in the cliffs where a hundred men could hide.
And why should Manuel Apache be making fancy smoke-talks if no one but
white men were there? Why not make a straight smoke, the way a white man
would, and let it go at that? Wunpost shook his head sagely and turned
away from the gap--he had had enough excitement for that trip.

Bone Canyon, for which he headed, was still far away and the sun was
getting low; but Wunpost knew, even if others did not, that there was a
water-hole well up towards the summit. A cloudburst had sluiced the
canyon from top to bottom and spread out a great fan of dirt; but in the
earlier days an Indian trail had wound up it, passing by the hidden
spring. And if he could water his mules there he could rim out up above
and camp on a broad, level flat. Wunpost jogged along fast, for he had
left the pony at Surveyor's Well, and as he rode towards the
canyon-mouth he kept his eyes on the ridges to guard against a possible
surprise. For